Cannonball
by BelowAverageGatsby
Summary: 'It's not hard to fall when you float like a cannonball.' All he needed was a new reason to smile, after all, he was raised in a train wreck. Dwayne/OC. Rated M for multiple reasons.
1. Nietzsche

_**PLEASE READ!:** I had this wonderful idea for a Little Miss Sunshine story, and here it is. This is just a short intro, but I hope you like it._

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><p>"<em>To forget one's purpose is the commonest form of stupidity"<em>

-**Friedrich Nietzsche**

He stared out of the window of the hospital, unwilling to look at his mother as she stood behind him. "I already went through this with uncle Frank." She mumbled, getting no response from Dwayne as she knelt beside the wheelchair he was seated in. She reached up and grabbed his hand, tracing small circles over the bandage that covered his wrists. She held back the tears, pretending to be as calm as she possibly could be. "You might not love me, but I love you. Remember that." She choked out, standing and holding her hand out to him. Unthinking, he took it, standing beside her as she led him out of the hospital.

"I'm sorry." He said finally, breaking the silence of the car ride. She wasn't sure if he meant it, or if he just wanted to make her feel better. Sheryl took it either way and looked between him and the road in quick seconds, reaching for his hand and squeezing. "No, _I'm_ sorry, Dwayne."

Having had his one dream crushed completely, he ended up being stuck at home. While he loved his family, he hated them. He hated the feeling of being in his own skin, he hated that it was Dwayne Hoover that looked back at him in the mirror. He hated the voice he heard when he spoke, he hated the name he saw when he signed a paper, he hated the clothes he found when he opened his dresser drawers, he hated the visions that passed his mind when he dreamed at night.

He hated Dwayne Hoover.

After discovering his handicap with color, these feelings bubbled over, and continued. Day by day, week by week, month by month, year by year, for five years.

His mother's marriage ended about a year after their road trip, getting custody of Olive, who understood and accepted the divorce more than she probably should have for only being eight years old. She was 13, now, and Dwayne had just celebrated his 22nd birthday, drinking alone on the garage roof while staring at the sky that had no stars due to light pollution from the nearby city.

It was that night that he decided he would kill himself.

A year ago, in Dwayne's perfect world, he would be spending his 22nd in the sky, behind the controls of a fighter plane, reveling in the view below him. Today, in Dwayne's perfect world, his suicide attempt was successful. Now, he's only grateful that it was uncle Frank that found him, and not Olive or his mother.

He dreaded going home. Seeing the understanding that was most likely to show on Franks face, and the heartbreak that would no doubt show on Olives.

That's exactly what he had come home to.

He shuffled to his room, not facing anyone, or expecting anything, only to find Olive sitting on his bed, tears running down her face. He stood in the doorway, staring at her, deciding whether to say what he _wants_ to say, or what he _should_ say. "Please keep the door open, Dwayne." Sheryl called quietly after him. "Olives in here with me." He assured her, never taking his eyes off his sister as he stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him.

To Dwayne, Olive was the most beautiful girl in the world. He studied her features. She was still the same Olive, but she had gotten taller, and grew into her weight. Her long hair was shorter only by a few inches, with layers and bangs, but she always kept it in a braid that hung over her shoulder. She had braces, and the same glasses that were just too big for her small facial features. She was growing up, and Dwayne was so proud to call her his sister.

Her eyes traveled to his bandaged wrists. He walked over to his night stand, opening the drawer, and grabbing the knife that he used just days before. Olive watched him closely with bloodshot eyes, shocked to see the knife, as he carefully began to cut away at the bandages. He handed the pocket knife to Olive, who took it without hesitation, as she closed it and put it in her jacket pocket, full intent to get rid of it when she had the chance. She looked back at his wrists as he gently pulled each bandage off, setting them in the garbage. Nothing was going through either of their minds, they just watched each other.

Dwayne knelt down in front of her, his wrists facing upward in between them, knowing he had to be gentle with this subject. He watched her study the stitches that held the deep lacerations closed. They went vertically, unlike their uncle, who had a scar going across each wrist. Along with the two bigger ones on Dwayne's wrists, smaller cuts littered his forearms. Frank took himself to the hospital in his attempt. He found Dwayne passed out in his room, near minutes away from no longer being a part of this world.

"Do you understand?" He asked Olive simply. She her blue eyes finally left his wrists to meet his green eyes as they welled up with tears again. "I understand _what_ you did," she started, trying to contain her sobs. Every heart string Dwayne had was bending and twisting, but he kept a straight face as she continued, "But I don't understand _why_."

Dwayne nodded, standing and sitting on his bed beside her, and leaning down, pulling her with him so that they lay together. He held onto her tightly as she sobbed, explaining that Dwayne was her best friend, and that she loved him. He tried to calm her down, each sob that left her body took another chunk out of his heart.

"I know you love me," He started, once Olive finally started to relax, "but _I_ don't love me." It was the easiest way he knew how to explain it. Olive was quiet for a long time, processing, trying to stop herself from looking at her brothers arms. He was always the one that was strong for Olive. The one that would tell her why other kids in class were saying hurtful things to her, or why boys were the way they were. He was always helping her with her homework, or reading philosophical books to her, telling her his favorite Nietzsche or Freud quotes.

"I need you to be my big brother, still." She finally said, sitting up and looking at her older brother. Dwayne sat up carefully, his arms still tender, and he looked at her, forcing a smile. "I'm still here, aren't I?"

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><p>… <em>to be continued...<em>


	2. Freud

**_PLEASE READ!:_**_ I didn't expect this story to take off, as there are less than 30 Little Miss Sunshine stories out there, but this one is just rolling into the page for me. It's so easy to write, and I'm already so proud of it! I hope you enjoy it._

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><p>"<em>America is a mistake, a giant mistake." <em>

- **Sigmund Freud**

Group therapy was the last thing Dwayne needed. Rage filled him when it was 'court ordered' for him to go twice a week, or he would be 'committed'. He hated the thought of group therapy, but the thought of being stuck in an insane asylum sounded worse.

He wasn't insane. Or maybe he was.

He released his grip on the steering wheel, his knuckles cramping from holding it so tightly out of frustration. He looked at himself in the mirror, and instantly cursed himself for it. His shaggy black hair framed his features that he shared too closely with his father. He looked down at himself, assessing his looks before going in. Since he had turned 18, he had acquired three tattoos; the first was a quote by Nietzche on his right shoulder that read, "There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness." The other was Olive's name in her hand writing on his chest, over his heart. The last was a1950's F-84F Thunderstreak fighter jet on his right, upper forearm, right below the bend of his arm. Below the jet was a date, 8/18/06. The date he found out he would never fly.

His slim-fit black jeans and converse were worn, and faded. He considered himself lucky to still have his favorite shirt to balance out the rips in the denim jeans, the black lettering on the yellow shirt spelling out 'Jesus Was Wrong' on the front. He rolled his shoulders back and forth, adjusting the black button up blazer jacket he wore, before finally stepping out of the car and walking to the psychological office in front of him.

He nervously made his way through the doors and to the front desk, where a middle aged colored woman and an older woman in scrubs sat quietly. "May I help you?" She stared Dwayne down, her eyes boring into his skin, eying his t-shirt, more than likely judging him. He looked down at his wrists, they still looked pretty fresh, the stitches hadn't even been removed yet. "I'm, ah. I'm here for group." He said, holding his wrists up.

"Oh, you must be Mr. Hoover." She said cautiously, as if she wasn't used to actually _seeing_ the self harm the patients may have inflicted. "Follow me." She said, standing up and walking around the desk. He followed her to the right, down the hall, listening as she explained how group worked, and how the office worked. "I'm Mrs. Erin, I'm the secretary. The other woman at the desk is Mrs. Bornes. You'll be placed in a group with others who have dealt personally with suicide, to make you more comfortable. Don't be afraid of speaking, these people have heard it all."

After taking a few turns, they finally stopped at a closed door. The plank hanging over the door stated 'Group Therapy, Dr. Edmund Tromme, Psy.D.' Dwayne took a deep breath, looking to Mrs. Erin again. She handed him a clipboard, smiling falsely at him. Dwayne judged that she hated her job. "Go inside and make yourself comfortable. Fill out these forms, and bring them to me after group. Since it's court ordered, you have to do at least an hour per session, for two weeks. Good luck." She stated monotonously, walking around Dwayne, and leaving to return to her desk.

Dwayne faced the door again, not wanting to open up to strangers. Not wanting them to know Dwayne as 'the new guy that tried to kill himself'. He didn't want to be looked at or treated as 'pathetic' or 'weak', when they don't know the train wreck he had been through.

He finally took another deep breath, reaching for the door handle and making his way inside the room.

He was greeted instantly by an older man. He was very slender, and tall. Wire framed glasses hung at the tip of his nose. He had a full head of white hair, and full facial hair to match. He wore brown pleated suit pants with black suspenders, over a white, button up shirt and black tie. His sleeves were pushed up, and he seemed very relaxed. His pleasant voice and appearance didn't do much to calm Dwayne down, though, as he reached out to shake his hand vigorously. "I'm Dr. Tromme. Who might you be?" Dwayne hesitated, but remembered he promised Olive he'd be nice and at least try. He reached out to shake the mans hand, surprised at how firm his grip was. "Dwayne Hoover." The man smiled bigger, recognizing the name. "Welcome, Dwayne. Please, relax. Take your jacket off, it's warm in here. Would you like coffee?" Dwayne looked around the room awkwardly, but the hope of coffee made him relax a little more. "Yes please, one sugar."

The room was particularly empty, aside from a desk in the corner, and a circle of six leather armchairs facing each other in the middle of the room. They were all a beige color, except one black one, and looked extremely comfortable. There were no windows in the room, but plenty of art and motivational posters to make up for it. The chairs were spaced out enough, so that the patients don't get uncomfortable.

"Here you go, one sugar." Dr. Tromme handed Dwayne the coffee, and he smirked quickly as means of 'thank you'. "Pick a spot, make yourself at home. Not the black chair, though. That one is mine." Dwayne picked the seat to the right of the black chair, and sighed in an attempt to relax. "Take your jacket off, please, relax." Dwayne looked to Dr. Tromme, who seemed nice enough, but Dwayne wasn't ready to show the damage to strangers yet, whether they were professionals with it or not. "No thanks, I'm fine." He stated, sipping his coffee. "Mr. Hoover, I need to look anyway. Please, take it off just for a second."

Dwayne sighed, setting his coffee on the round coffee table in the middle of the chairs, before standing and removing the blazer and holding his arms out, wrists upwards. Dr. Tromme walked over to Dwayne, holding a clipboard in hand. Placing the clipboard on the coffee table, he pushed his glasses further onto his nose and gently grabbed Dwayne's wrists to hold them closer and nodding. Dwayne stared at the wall, feeling restless, as the psychologist picked up the clipboard and jotted a few things down, and returned to his desk. "You have about 15 minutes before the others show up, so you should fill out those forms."

Dwayne nodded as he pulled his blazer back on and sat, beginning the paperwork. Just basic physical and mental health questions, and a few release forms that Dwayne had to sign. "I noticed the Thunderstreak tattoo," Dr. Tomme started, over his papers, "great plane. Got to see it when I was a kid." Dwayne smiled briefly at the man and nodded before returning to his forms, finishing them quickly.

Ten more minutes went by as people started showing up, one by one. Dwayne watched and assessed the other members in the group. The first was a short, wider man. He looked to be in his late forties, but he seemed pleasant, and to himself, he introduced himself as Andy. The second was a woman in her late twenties. She was very skinny and pale, and looked tired. She was taller than Dwayne by a few inches, had a mess of brown hair on top of her head that masked her brown eyes, and called herself Amanda. The third was a tall, balding colored man named Eric, he seemed very happy. He walked in with a smile on his face, and made sure he said hello to everyone.

"Looks like Ms. Grey is going to be late again." Dr. Tomme declared, claiming his chair as everyone sat down. Just as they got comfortable, the door swung open.

Dwayne eyed the girl that walked in, locking eyes with her. He found himself at a loss for words. She looked to be close to Dwayne's age. Her skin was pale, complimenting the smokey eyeshadow that circled and enhanced her bright blue eyes. Her hair was beautiful. Long, black, and curly, with lots of layers that framed her oval face. She had a small, button nose that was turned slightly upward. She was shorter than Dwayne, only coming up to his chin.

She also had quite a few tattoos. There was a rose on the right side of her neck. A colorful anchor sat over her heart, the rope of the anchor seemed to be carried by a sparrow on her left shoulder. Below that, on her left arm, was a lighthouse. Next to the anchor was a name, Brandon. Her right arm had a sunflower field, beautiful and bright. On her right thigh, there was a male Day of the Dead skull, on the left was a female.

"I'm so sorry! I was _almost_ late again." She said, rushing to the last empty seat, two away from Dr. Tromme to his left. Dwayne never took his eyes off of her. She stood up, reaching her hand out to him. He hesitated, feeling suddenly very conscience of his wrists, but took her hand anyway. "Esther Grey." She beamed at him. He looked closer at her features. She had a few freckles that dusted across her nose, which was pierced on the left side with a tiny, silver hoop, and she wore black plugs in her stretched ears. She wore a black tank top, with grey shorts.

"This is Dwayne Hoover." Dr. Tomme broke in, interrupting Dwayne's thoughts. "Sorry," Dwayne mumbled quietly, sitting down quickly. He hadn't realize he was staring, and had begun mentally kicking himself.

"Lets start with introductions," Tromme began, his clipboard in hand, "I know you all know each other, but Mr. Hoover is new here. Let's start from the left."

Andy stood up, reaching over to shake Dwayne's hand. "My name is Andy Burkem. I'm a recovering alcoholic, clean and sober for four years, and my last and only suicide attempt was almost three and a half years ago." Everyone clapped, as Dwayne just watched, listening intently with curiosity as to why everyone else was here. As Andy sat down, Esther stood up. Dwayne didn't physically react, but she had his full attention.

She smiled, lighting up the room. Dwayne's stomach flipped as she looked at him, but he didn't show his reaction as he sat cross legged, leaning his chin into his hand. She coughed as she began, "My name is Esther Grey, I'm 21 years old." he voice faltered, but she continued anyway, "Someone that means a lot to me shot himself almost two years ago. I was the one that found him, and I'm just trying to move on from it." Her voice cracked as she sat down, Andy patting her shoulder to reassure her. Dwayne's face hardened, thinking about Olive.

The rest went on. Amanda Isler, who was 31, was recovering from anorexia, and had tried to kill herself twice two years ago. The last, Eric, was a man that had recovered from depression, having tried to kill himself over five years ago, and was there to support anyone who needed it. They then all looked at Dwayne.

His heart raced as he sat forward, looking to Dr. Tromme who smiled at him, nodding for him to introduce himself. Dwayne stood, looking at everyone, who's suicide attempts were all years before. They all knew each others stories, and recognized that it was all over a year ago, how would they react to Dwayne?

He rubbed his hands on his jeans, clearing his throat. "M-My name is Dwayne Hoover." He paused, not quite knowing where to start. "I'm 22 years old." He paused again, looking down at his arms. "Don't be nervous." He looked up to find Esther smiling at him, encouraging him. He took a deep breath, his stomach doing cartwheels. "I've been suffering from depression, I guess... For five years now." He wasn't a nervous person, but he was extremely emotionally aware of himself. Always had been since he found out he was color blind, having spent nine months without saying a word to anyone, or letting anyone know what he was feeling.

"It's been, uh..." He looked to Tromme, who sighed at him, waiting patiently with the rest of the group. Dwayne took a moment of courage, and just spat it out. "It's only been five days since my first suicide attempt." He sat down instantly after saying it. His heart pounding beneath his chest. He reached out and grabbed his coffee, taking a sip. "How?" Amanda asked sheepishly. Dwayne looked to his covered arms, then to Tromme. Sighing, he stood and took the jacket off, revealing his wrists to the group.

He had ten stitches running down each wrist, the stitching stood out among the other cuts and scars that had been collected over the years of self-loathing and inner anguish. As quickly as the jacket was off, it was back on, and Dwayne had sat himself down again. His mind rushing with that same feeling of self-loathing that never seemed to leave. He wanted the attention off of himself.

"Do you have any siblings?" A small voice suddenly asked. Dwayne looked up, locking eyes with Esther. He gulped, looking down at his coffee. "I have a little sister." He mumbled, not looking at her. Esther smiled, her voice was quiet. It then clicked to Dwayne, Esther was the little sister of a victim of suicide. She was probably thinking about how Olive must be feeling.

The hour dragged and subjects changed. Dwayne had barely spoken the entire session, but he expected that. As the hour came to a close, they all stood together, shaking hands and hugging.

Dwayne rushed out as soon as possible, dropping his forms off at the front desk, and nearly running to his car. He was just so happy to be out. A white minivan had parked to the left of him. The side door of the van was open, and a pair of grey shorts and thin legs stuck out, blocking his way to the driver side door. Dwayne, recognizing it was Esther, took in the image, he was only human.

He noticed more tattoos alined her legs, bursting with color. Just as his eyes traveled upwards, she began to stand. Dwayne pretended he was just walking to his car and didn't see her there, accidentally bumping in to her in the process. "Dwayne!" She exclaimed, surprise showing on her face. "I'm sorry, I didn't expect you there!" Dwayne nodded at her, his cheeks becoming flush, pointing to his silver Sedan, "That's me," he mumbled, pointing his car keys at the vehicle. He was never one to be shy. Quite the opposite, actually. He was quiet, but opinionated. He held an intelligence that surpassed his age, and he never kept it to himself, but he was shy right now.

They stood there, sharing an awkward silence, before Esther finally spoke up, "I'll see you Thursday." She pushed passed him, walking around the front of her van to the drivers side. Dwayne started mentally kicking himself, knowing he should say something. Instead, he just opened his door. "Hey, Dwayne?" He looked to the van to see Esther sitting in the drivers seat, both windows rolled down. Music played that he recognized to be Damien Rice. "Can you do me a favor?" It was then that Dwayne noticed there were tears in her eyes. He turned to her, giving her his full attention.

"Go home and tell your sister how much you love her. You don't realize how devastated she probably is."

The words cut his chest in half. He nodded despite himself, turning to get into his car. He watched as she pulled her van forward and drove off. He put his key in the ignition, turning the car on. Breathing heavily, he pulled his jacket off, tossing it onto the passengers seat. He looked down at his arms, hating what he looked down at. For a brief second, he considered ripping the stitches out. He looked in the rear view mirror at himself, fighting tears. He put the car in drive, driving home as quickly as possible.

Dwayne hadn't cried. He was broken, every day felt like it dragged on, and the nights felt like mere seconds, and that's how he lived in a body and mind that he despised, but no. Dwayne Rodney Hoover hadn't shed one tear, because he thought it was self-pity, and he hated self-pity.

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><p>"Hey, how was-" "Is Olive home?" Sheryl looked at her son as he charged into the house, showing concern at the sound of his voice shaking. "Yeah," she said slowly, "She's in the back, is everything okay?" Dwayne pushed passed her, walking out of the back yard to see Olive sitting with some friends. They looked at him, telling each other to look at his arms, as Olive stood. Dwayne resisted breaking out into a run, as his pace quickened, wrapping his sister up into his arms as soon as he got to her.<p>

He sobbed into her shoulder, hugging her tightly. He didn't care if it embarrassed her, he didn't care how awkward her friends felt, this was between Olive and himself. He was surprised when she, too, started crying, her arms around his shoulders tightly. "I didn't mean to hurt you, I am so, so sorry, Olive." He sobbed, kissing her cheek and forehead. She tightened her grip around his shoulders, "Don't do it again, okay?"

He finally pulled away, taking in her features, pushing her hair out of the way.

"I promise."

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><p>"So how was group?" Frank asked. It was late, which was never unusual for Frank and Dwayne. They usually just sat on the back porch and smoked, having grown close over the years since Frank had taken over the basement after Richard left. Dwayne chuckled, taking the joint from his uncle and dragging, reveling in the fact that he had a good buzz going. "Would it be weird if I said I met a girl there?"<p>

He looked to uncle Frank, who looked surprised. "A girl, in therapy, wow. Must be a keeper." He joked, taking the joint back. Dwayne let out a quiet laugh, nodding. "She's there because her older brother or sister shot themselves, and she found them." "Wow," Frank handed the almost finished joint back, "I cannot even imagine. Is she cute?" Dwayne's eyes widened at the question, nodding enthusiastically. "Gorgeous."

"Why did you do it?" Dwayne looked to Frank skeptically, he shrugged in return. "Why did _you_ do it?" He countered, smashing the bud into the table and placing it underneath the pile of dirt in the ashtray. "Touche', touche'." Frank laughed. "Have you talked to your dad since?" Dwayne's smile fell, not wanting to answer the question.

His mom married Richard when he was very young. He never really knew his father, other than the fact that he lived in Florida. He went to visit him sometimes, but it was usually the same dance every time. His father was a drunk. Granted Dwayne hated Richard, but he was at least willing to adopt Dwayne as his child, giving him the last name Hoover.

"No, that man can go fuck himself." Dwayne said calmly, bringing Frank to laugh again. "I agree, I remember him well." "I look too much like him." He said, running his hand through his now shoulder length hair, that he still had colored black.

"So, tell me more about this girl." The smile was back on Dwayne's face as he hung his head, turning it to look at his uncle. "Her name is Esther." Dwayne couldn't fight the smile on his face, and Frank noticed, pulling out another joint with a knowing look on his face. Dwayne let out a deep laugh, but stopped it quickly, not wanting to wake the neighbors or the house. Rarely, did they smoke more than one, and if they did it meant it was going to be a long night.

Dwayne told him about Esther. Explained how stupid he felt for feeling this childish after only one hour of being in her presence. He always told Frank everything, and Frank always told Dwayne everything. He had become less like an uncle and more like an older brother to Dwayne.

They both sat at the wooden picnic table, Dwayne on the table, Frank below him on the seat. "So what are you gunna do, Dwayne?" Dwayne shrugged, taking another drag of the rolled paper, the buzz becoming a high. "I'll tell you what you're gunna do." Frank said almost triumphantly, taking the pot from his nephew. "You're going to go to group on Thursday, bump into her again on the way out, and ask her out for coffee." He hit the joint one more time before handing it to Dwayne to take the last hit. Dwayne nodded while doing so, again hiding the bud in the ashtray dirt. "I can do that."

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><p><em>... to be continued...<em>


	3. Xenocrates

"_I have often repented speaking, but never of holding my tongue."_

- **Xenocrates**

He stood in the shower, his arms and face pressed against the tile, sobbing. He hadn't wanted it known, but his failed attempt at a simple task as suicide was destroying him. "I don't want to be here anymore," he sobbed into the tile, repeating it over and over. He leaned back, looking at the stitching in his wrists, wanting nothing more than to rip them out and try again.

It was back. The loathing, the feeling of his own hatred controlling the nerves in his skin and it felt like every inch of him was crawling. He just wanted out of his skin, out of his body, out of his mind. He wanted out of Dwayne Hoover. He didn't understand how his mind could do this. He was never _better_ but, for today at least, he was _okay_. Meeting Esther, making a promise to Olive, and smoking with uncle Frank was enough for a _moment_.

He had wanted to be a pilot more than anything, and he hated that his mind _always_ went back to his now lack of a chance without fail. When ever he was alone, he thought about the effort he put into achieving that goal. Every since he was eight years old, he knew that's what he wanted to be. He worked harder than anyone else in school, and even discovered Nietzsche, Feud, and other great minded psychologists and philosophers. He engulfed himself in it, launching his intelligence far beyond his years, taking a Vow of Silence until the day he became a test pilot for the U.S. Air force.

He remembered the day he told his family. It was a Saturday morning, during breakfast. He had made the vow to himself at 12AM, and wrote a letter explaining it to his family. At first, they thought it to be ridiculous. They didn't think he was serious, least of all Richard, until days, weeks, then months passed without even the tiniest hint of a sound escaping Dwayne's lips.

Nine months. He had secluded himself from his peers, and his family, saying nothing to no one. He decided to start taking better care of himself to pass the time; eating healthier, exercising. It the nine months of his hourly work out routine and reading, his silence had given him a chance to sit back and observe his family, his peers, and the world in general. Dwayne was always so blunt. He never realized how much his daily honesty had impacted the family until they had gotten used to not hearing it. They were idiots. He hated them, and found them almost unbearable, but he loved them.

He felt himself maturing during this silence, coming up with his own ideas of the world, deciding that God was an excuse. He had forgotten the sound of his own voice to the point where the one in his head was unfamiliar. He was _always_ so blunt. Having no voice to use, he had to use his facial expressions and body language. He had missed expressing himself, he missed verbal communication, but this goal was _far_ more important to him than family or friends.

Now, he had nothing to show for it.

He reached up, grabbing the shower head and leaning on it, letting the near scalding water run through his scalp and down his body. Maybe he did it wrong? Maybe that's why he was still alive. It didn't take much, but Dwayne's mind was made up. He hated himself more than he loved his family, and that made the loathing worse. His promise to Olive meant so much at the time but now, a day later, it meant nothing again. Regret filled him, knowing he should have _never _promised Olive.

He finally got out of the shower. His fingertips were still shriveled and his hair still wet when he grabbed his wallet and keys, and stepped out of the house quietly. It was three in the morning, as Dwayne silently pulled out of the driveway and to the house he hoped was still there.

It was. His grandfathers old heroin dealers car was still in the driveway. Dwayne only knew about it because Edwin would often send him go get the drugs for him in order to keep the suspicion down.

He arrived 25 minutes after leaving his house. He wanted to make this quick, and he knew it would be. He knocked on the door three times quickly, paused, then did it again, just as his grandfather always instructed. It took a minute before the door opened. The older man smiled, recognizing him easily. "Dwayne, right?" He chirped, his voice was tired and low. He stepped to the side, allowing Dwayne to walk in. He did a quick glance over the street before closing the door.

Dwayne never learned his name, but he always knew his. His first, at least. He knew that this dealer had never used the drugs himself, he had actually _never_ done drugs, but it made good money. "I haven't seen you since Eddie died, how ya been?" He said, sitting at the table of the dimly lit kitchen. Dwayne said nothing, his thoughts off somewhere else, racing with his pulse. He was aware of where he was, and why he was there, but he wasn't fully processing it.

The man nodded, noting that this was a strictly business deal and 'simple chat' wasn't necessary. "What can I do ya for, Dwayne?" He took a deep breath, eying the man he hadn't seen since he was 17 years old. "I need something." "So you're talking again. I thought your gram'pa was dead." "It's for me." The man looked at him skeptically, almost disappointed. "I'm not looking for a high, or a buzz," Dwayne admitted, exhaling deeply, his voice temporarily caught in his throat, "I'm looking for something that will kill me."

The man shook his head, standing. "You need to leave, Dwayne." "I don't want a painful death, I just want something I can take and then go to sleep." "I'm not condoning this." "I'll give you $300." The man stopped, looking at Dwayne. He studied him. Even after five years, Dwayne wore his emotions like a neon sign. He saw the misery on the young mans face, but he still wasn't convinced, so Dwayne persisted. "You give drugs that slowly kill to people who don't want to die, I'm asking for something quick because I _want_ to die."

He always charged Edwin $80, and that was a 'special deal' for his 'favorite customer'. He was a scum bag, and $300 was a lot of money. The man sighed, scratching the gray scruff around his jawline, thinking. "I want $350, and a good reason." Dwayne stared at him, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his wallet, pulling out the money he had earned from his part time job at a book store. "My reason is if you don't, I'll report you."

The man chuckled at the threat, having it be reason enough, counting the money placed on the table. He held a finger up to Dwayne and sauntered out of the room. Dwayne sat there for what fell like hours, but was actually only five minutes, looking around the house, remembering how terrified he was the first time he came here. He shifted his weight between feet, feeling uneasy.

He returned, holding a small plastic bag containing three pills out to Dwayne. "These are powerful narcotics," he explained, sitting back down. He was tired, and old. "It takes about ten minutes for one to kick in. If you take all of them all at once, you'll get tired and fall asleep before your body shuts down. The process will take 30 minutes at the most." Dwayne nodded, staring at the white pills, holding the snack bag up by the seal. The small bag felt like like it weighed 80lbs, his stomach turned. He looked at the man one more time before pocketing the pills and turning to the door to leave. "How old are you now, Dwayne?"

Dwayne didn't turn, his back to him and his hand on the door knob. "I'm 22, sir." There was a short silence before the man clicked his teeth together. "That's too young to be this miserable. Tell your gram'pa I said hi when you get there."

With that, Dwayne left without another word.


End file.
